


Butterflies, Angels and Other Things with Wings

by Nitzer



Category: Topp Dogg | Xeno-T (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, The power of friendship, lots of talk of hansol's art, mental health issues but like very vague, real soft hours hit that like, this is really just nakta and hansol appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 09:40:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nitzer/pseuds/Nitzer
Summary: Nakta might just be an angel and Hansol? Well, he's certainly a Gemini.or a collection of unrelated moments in their friendship





	Butterflies, Angels and Other Things with Wings

**Author's Note:**

> this is purely self-indulgent tbh, writing this was like asmr for my soul  
> i wrote this 1000% platonically but i can not make you read it that way ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> there are some vague references to mental health issues in here and some cheap shots at both p-goon and gohn bc i never really cared for either of them but i really, really never cared for the way both of them treated hansol also all the vignettes are in no particular order except the last one

It’s away from cameras, away from fans, the company, the other members too that Hansol paints my nails for the first time. I accidentally stumble upon him with a little pouch of clinking nail polishes in his hand. He gasps and clutches his hand over his heart when I bump softly into his dresser. Our other roommates are out somewhere. I think Hansol is too before I stumble into our room. But his face relaxes and his hand drops when he sees it’s just me. “You’re too tall to be that quiet.” He laughs off.

I always have to stumble onto vulnerabilities with Hansol, always have to stick with him until I just happen to be there when he breaks. It’s the only way I get to anything real and soft within him. But I must have outstanding luck because I am always there when he is about to stumble. I almost always have a chance to prevent disaster. Or maybe those are the only disasters I get to know about. “You have enough to share?” The interest I show Hansol is rarely feigned, sometimes just barely exaggerated but everything Hansol does is worthy of interest. I’d seen him before with pristinely painted black nails, subtly showing them off the way he does when he’s insecure and unsure but absolutely unwilling to show it. I’d sometimes also seen Byungjoo with more ragged, chipped black nails I attributed to Hansol. I’d never seen any other colors.

“You want me to paint your nails?” It is not a shy confirmation, it comes out with audio equivalent of a hand placed on cocked hip. He’s still cross-legged on the floor with the pouch in his hands though.

“Yeah, what colors do you have?” I fold my limbs in to fit in with him on the floor. I never really thought about painting my nails before but I’ve been caught in the fight to make Hansol feel normal too many times before. It’s better to just jump into whatever he’s doing with him. It’s the easiest way to convince him that everything is okay.

He pours out the little bottles onto the floor, all of them clinking mutedly against the carpet and each other. There’s a well-used black bottle, a dark purple, a deep red, a neon green and an electric blue. All of the bottles seem open even if I’ve only seen the black on his nails before. Black nails were always a safe bet, especially when you had the “alternative” image that Hansol did. I didn’t.

I poke at the electric blue before sliding it towards Hansol, catching his eye.

“You can have the black, you know, I can always just buy more.” He tells me, still wrapped up in fake nonchalance.

“I like the blue.” I insist gently.

He cracks open the bottle but clicks his tongue and shakes his head like he’s indulging me, like he’s letting me make a bad decision. But I don’t have the same following he does, I don’t have all those eyes on me. My appearance is rarely make or break and a little nail polish is just a little nail polish to me. Even if it is not the approved black he wears out nervously.

His strokes are not sure and precise, they’re sloppy, almost artistic, leaving blue bleeding out all around my cuticles. He doesn’t grip my hand carefully or gently. It’s all casual and carefree like he’s doing me a favor. I guess he kinda is. “The coordi noonas are just gonna have to take this off next time you see them.” It is an off-handed nothing. He’s still focused on his work, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth even if his hands are carefree.

“That’s fine.”

His eyes narrow just slightly, his hand flicking a brush stroke against my nail that feels a lot more like a knife slash than the others. “You’re just humoring me.”

I am. Or, at least, I was. Most of my time spent with Hansol is a carefully-balanced mixture of genuine interest and placating him. It is easy for it all to become genuine interest, though, it’s so easy to find everything about Hansol endlessly fascinating. I shake my hand loose from Hansol’s grip and admire the half-done brush strokes, the near organic way they seem to creep past my nail and onto my skin. It almost reminds me of his artwork. “No, I like it. Really.” And I’m being honest. Really.

He looks at me—guarded and ready to pounce like an animal backed into a corner for a moment. Then he deflates in one, big dramatic sigh. He takes my hand back and flicks one quick stroke against my nail. It’s still like he’s indulging me. That’s fine though. I guess he is, technically, and I’m not allowed to win these things anyway. There’s never really been anything for me to win, it’s just a friendship after all.

Days later, when I do actually have to face the coordi noonas, my nail polish is still an obvious, electric blue on my nails but it’s chipped and worn now, the artistry fading. Only one of the noonas gives it more than a glance, a look of mild disapproval briefly crossing her face. But I’m sure she’s more frustrated with trying to tie electric blue nail polish into my mostly plain look more than anything else. She leaves what’s left of the nail polish intact.

*

Sometimes the best thing to do with Hansol is absolutely nothing at all. Sometimes there’s nothing _to_ do. So when Byungjoo is the only one of us missing from the dorms (of the ones still left at least), staying late with some foreign choreographer he’s been losing his mind over for months I feel the tension in the air but I do nothing. No one else in dance line got the opportunity. Which isn’t why Hansol is sulking and moody, I’m almost sure. He’s reclusive and aggressive, particularly clingy with Byungjoo up until this morning when he wouldn’t even acknowledge him.

Even I, with all my years of careful study of Hansol and his boundaries, step too far—alighting the aggressive spitfire in Hansol while trying to be so gentle with him. He spits some unexpectedly cutting insults, screams for me to get out of “his” room (it is as much mine as his or Byungjoo’s) and shoves me with all the strength I always knew was hiding in his stocky body. So I leave. I say nothing and I leave. Because I know—I’ve _always_ known—that he was as much an unwitting victim of leers and miserable circumstances as he was the aggressor in whatever situation he found himself in. And I am not about to let him push me into being another one of his bullies.

Late into the night—late into a night of sharing a space with Sangdo and his endless gentle patience—Byungjoo still isn’t home and I’m tired. There isn’t any light coming from my room anymore, no sound either. Hansol is curled in on himself on Byungjoo’s bunk, Doldol tightly in his hold. He is, for now at least, peacefully sleeping. So I do nothing. It’s probably for the best.

*

Hansol’s painting is a well-kept secret until too many other, more incriminating things about Hansol are not well-kept secrets either. It’s probably the least consequential secret he ever released to the public. It’s probably the best thing he decided to unwrap from himself and send out into the world. It leads to long, quiet and rambling broadcasts where he paints and talks about his art—what it means, what inspired him. It’s the only time I’m maybe jealous of all the attention Hansol gets.

I’m sitting behind him, mostly hidden from the view of the camera in his practice room during one of the broadcasts. I’ve been contributing essentially nothing, asking questions occasionally, very rarely answering questions from the video comments, mostly messing around on my phone. Hansol huffs out a deep sigh and leans back in his seat, his eyes scanning over his painting. I look up too, the work is the same kind of endlessly fascinating all of his works are—bright colors and bold brush strokes, something vaguely human in the center. Maybe it’s not even finished yet, I guess only Hansol would know for sure.

He’s still got all of his paints sitting out in front of him, a wide array of colors that only he could outshine and half-dirtied brushes leaking faint colors onto stray paper towels. While Hansol is quietly chatting with the camera I pick up one of the used brushes and dip it into a vibrant green. I swipe one sure, barely curved line over the back of his hand.

He just looks up at me, barely amused. “Yes, Yooncheol-ah?” He drawls.

I just follow up the line with two overlapping 3’s and a little flick of a line next to the first one. The bold green looks good against his skin.

Hansol tilts his head and twists his wrist until the lines start to become a shape on his hand. “Oh, a butterfly?” He confirms.

I just shrug, always a little shy on camera. “They suit you.” I offer as an explanation.

He smiles down at the little sketch. “They do.” He agrees before going back to the camera. I keep catching flashes of vibrant green against vibrant skin—a peak at what Hansol’s soul would show if it got the chance—throughout the entire broadcast.

*

It is only when I am forced to compare Hansol to the other members that I realize there is no comparison. Really, none at all. We’re both in the dance practice room even if no one is really practicing. I’m squished up against the mirrored wall, Hansol pressing into my personal space on all sides. He’s laying on the floor, his phone over his face, his head pressed _into_ my thigh (not resting on it but I’m not even sure that’d be much more comfortable). We’ve been sharing a comfortable silence for a while, Hansol obviously occupied with himself.

“Sweetheart.” He tries out on his tongue. It doesn’t come out anything like Sangdo—who is so endlessly patient, reliable and smooth. It comes out partially condescending, like a nickname he’d use for anyone.

“Sweetheart.” I try out too, stressing the first “T” harder than either Hansol or Sangdo.

“Sweetheart.” He repeats, stressing the word differently, sitting it differently on his tongue.

I smiled down at him, poking at the center of his chest affectionately. “Sweetheart.”

He laughs it off, poking at my chest too. And I _see_ his mouth poised around “oppa” jokingly but it never makes it out. If it was Hojoon, no one would be able to stop him from jokingly calling any other member “oppa” if the situation even _slightly_ suggested it. Sanggyun too, loved “oppa” jokes, even Jiho would join in sometimes. But Hansol doesn’t get the luxury. It’s an old wound, made by Dongsung and constantly picked at by Sehyuk. Or maybe not. Maybe it goes farther back than I can trace. Either way, I watch him swallow the word entirely, give up on “sweetheart” too and pick his phone back up.

Sometimes there’s just nothing you can do.

*

The dance practice room in the company building isn’t technically Hansol’s but it’s not unusual for him to be the only one dancing in it. Between all his personal projects, special stages and collaborations with foreign choreographers, this ended up being his practice room than the one he shared with Byungjoo. I don’t think that Hansol has anything specific he was working on but I was rarely privy to what dance line was doing.

I maybe could’ve been composing but Sangdo had stayed home this morning and I wasn’t looking forward to being locked up alone. So I took my phone, full of fragments of lyrics and half-finished ideas to the dance practice room instead. Trying to find ways to piece together different lines I have scattered throughout my notes took most of my attention but sometimes I still looked up to watch Hansol. It wasn’t inspirational, there was no poetry in the way he moved. There was rarely a story to follow, an emotion I could really grasp, even a vibe to hint at something. He was just so charismatic, so impossible _not_ to watch.

He was choreographing to some fast-paced techno song with foreign words sprinkled over it. It was the style I always associated with Hansol—fast and intricate, hitting beats I didn’t even hear until he moved to them. And it was always more fun to watch dancers dance than it was to watch composers compose or singers sing. He hadn’t even gotten around to working on his expressions yet—his face constantly pulled into a furrow of concentration. But his charisma was only enhanced by his expressions not dictated by them.

I am only faintly aware that the music has changed from fast-paced electronica to some American pop song I kind of know. I’m trying to see if I can move some stray sweet and romantic lines into a break-up song for an extra punch of sadness. And in my peripheral I can tell that Hansol is really getting into the music again, not creating or critiquing just _dancing_. And once I find a better word for “melancholy” I’ll give him the audience he really deserves.

“C’mon! Get up!” Hansol yells, waving his hands at me.

I look up dumbly, somehow conveying “are you talking to me?” without words.

“Yooncheol,” he calls fondly, “come dance with me!”

He’s moving slow and slinky—sexy because of his confidence almost exclusively. It’s the newest Rihanna song he’s playing, I recognize. He’s always like this with Rihanna songs. He takes my hands and helps me find the rhythm, slowing down to let me keep up with him. I’ve already resigned myself to never really being a _dancer_. I was too tall and boney, every move looked stilted and awkward on me. But I picked up the moves pretty quickly even if they were always hiding me in the back so no one could see how angular they always looked on me. It doesn’t take long for me to get into it with Hansol’s help.

“Get it, Yooncheol!” He tells me in accented English that sounds nothing like when the rappers I know say “get it” but Hansol is impossible to compare to anyone else anyway.

So I _get it_. I lift my hands above my head and clumsily move my hips, grinding against nothing.

“Yas!” Hansol _screeches_ before dissolving into giggles. And I laugh too because it’s always been a joke, just something to distract both of us from work. And I know I’m not even the best dancer in this room but, hey, at least I’m dancing.

*

The first time I see Hansol really get to stretch his bound wings and do something without the company, it is something the company would’ve regarded warily if they were looking at all. I am not privy to what the project is really, as always. Dance projects always stay between the dancers after all. I know that it’s a dance, though, with choreographers from outside the company. I’ve lost Hansol to the dance practice room and some other dance studio in some other part of the city for the past couple weeks so I know that much.

There are two girls in all-black outfits and sharp makeup waiting around in the lobby of the company that I’ve never seen before. I just assume that they’re here for Hansol. At this point when people wait in the company building for one of us it’s almost always either Hansol or Byungjoo. They’ve always been good at making waves on their own. But I only get a glimpse at the girls as I hurry to my own practice room, not wanting to bother them.

The star of the performance has been rummaging around the wardrobe room of the company building since I got there, though and I haven’t seen him once. I don’t expect to see him until we all get back to back to the dorms at night and by then his carefully-crafted look will probably be wrecked if not gone completely. If I want to see Hansol’s art I’ll probably have to wait until he releases it to the public. Like I usually do.

But in the middle of working out a melody with Sangdo I hear the rhythmic, sure sound of footsteps past our open doorway—someone strutting—like it’s a fashion show. And I turn to see Hansol because, of course it’s him, who else would _strut_ down the hallway like this? But I also turn to be _stunned_ by him, utterly and completely. He’s in an all-black get up that matches what the girls in the lobby are wearing but there’s just too much going on to take in at once—in the tiny glimpse I get while he passes our doorway. There’s fishnet running down his arms and an earring I’m sure I’ve never seen before, catching the light, making my eyes dart over it. And there’s combat boots and a belt swinging with every confident footstep and the kind of heavy eye makeup I thought he had given up on when Stardom went under. And the black choker that could probably be considered a leash, the way the strap hung down from his neck and the _lipstick_ —smeared with the kind of precise and natural artistry always present in Hansol’s painting.

I think he tosses a confident smirk our way but there’s too much to process. I’m awestruck and _dumb_ with the image I’m presented. He’s beautiful. He’s _beautiful_ like this. It’s undeniable. And it’s not the beauty we strive for in photoshoots and on the stage, not the kind of beautiful in commercials or in the cramped dressing rooms we share with other groups. This is a work of art. This is provocative, daring and unexpected. And it’s not even the confidence that Hansol wears it with that makes it art. Hansol never got a chance to be _confident_. He always overshot “confidence” entirely and went straight into “defiance.” He wore everything he ever wore, danced every choreography he ever choreographed, smiled every snarling, teeth-baring smile with _defiance_.

And I want to grab his arm in the hallway, spin him around and let him know how beautiful he looks with lipstick smeared over his mouth and defiance in every step. But he’s already gone. And he probably already knows. And if he doesn’t, his dancer friends will tell him. I already know where my words will land anyway—in the same toxic, trash heap unwanted touches from Dongsung and leering compliments from Sehyuk always land. So I just bite my tongue and appreciate the art from behind the red velvet rope like everyone else.

*

It’s slow. _Everything_ has been slow. Our schedules are slow, the shows on TV seem to have slowed, even the weather seems to sluggishly refuse to get out of the rainy season. Some of us are better at moving forward despite the lack of momentum. Sometimes I’m one of them. Usually Hansol is. Today neither of us are.

We both succumb to our circumstances for a moment. It’s been gray all day, still raining in the early afternoon with both of us on the couch in the living room. Hansol wanted to carve out time to watch some American movie I’ve never heard of. I just…don’t want to do anything honestly. I’m already too worn down by the stagnant _nothing_ to make projects for myself. So I stay with Hansol instead.

We’re both squished onto the couch the same way we always share our limited spaces—with Hansol sprawled all over me like I’m some sort of comfortable cushion and not a boney person. I only understand less than half of what’s going on in the movie and am mostly distracting myself with watching the rain fall outside and tracing over Hansol’s features with my eyes. He’s half-asleep against me anyway. He’s bare-faced with some cute headband (probably a gift from fans) pushing his bangs away from his face.

Hansol’s face is interesting. It’s beautiful too, of course. But not like Jiho is beautiful or Sangdo or Byungjoo. There is always something to look at in the contrast between soft and harsh in his features. There is always something new to get lost in. So I let my eyes trace over his round face, his stretched-thin mouth, his sharp eyes. It seems like there’s more to see bare-faced—more softness to his eyes, more depth to his skin.

One of his eyes cracks open, landing on my face. “Yooncheol,” his drawls in his patented slinky, subtly suggestive tone, “it’s rude to stare.”

I adjust the headband so it rests more comfortably on his head. “Not if you’re staring at art.”

He laughs loud and brash and _defiant_ , his eyes scrunching up with his smile. He slaps his hands against my arm, playfully pushing me away. “If you have something to say, just say it.” He challenges.

“You’re art.” I respond in the same challenging tone, my hands still resting on his legs.

He rolls his eyes amusedly. “Original, at least.” He laughs like he’s appraising my compliment.

And I don’t care if he is. Because it’s not even really a compliment, it’s just a plain fact. And I flex my fingers into his thighs a little bit. Just as a reminder to myself that sometimes I was trusted enough (liked enough? _Loved_ enough?) to get behind the red velvet rope and really appreciate the art.

*

I sometimes feel like I’m always the only one really keeping an eye on Hansol, really thinking about him when he’s not in front of me. And the dorms get so quiet when he’s not well, holed up in bed, crying in the shower or away from the apartment entirely. That’s the only reason it seems like I have some sort of sixth sense for him, because I’m the only one listening for the quiet his bad days bring.

So when the dorms get unusually quiet a couple hours after getting home from a broadcast, I get suspicious or worried or something like it. I think I last saw Hansol queuing up for his turn in the shower. And it’s been a while since that now. And the apartment is _quiet_. All I can hear is the muted sound of some show or video or game from the living room. So I worry.

Sangwon’s on the couch in the living room, the only one still out of his room, the only one still looking at the bathroom door. “Did Hansol ever get out of the bathroom?” I ask.

Sangwon’s focused on some variety show and looks at me unsurely. “I don’t think so.” He finally answers and that’s…not good.

I open the bathroom door to Hansol huddled in the corner of the shower, still naked with water droplets clinging to his skin. “Oh fuck,” I manage to breathe out, shutting the bathroom door behind me gently. The steam from the hot water had already cleared away from the room and I can see the little tremor under his skin from the cold tile and the cold water. And I know what it’s like to sob and sob in the shower and convince yourself that you’re okay, that you’re ready to face the world (even if the world is only a distracted Sangwon) only to turn the water off and breakdown again. I know what it’s like to end up there.

“Let’s get you dried off, yeah?” I say mostly to myself. I don’t think he’s made it quite back down to earth yet anyway.

He looks at me with blurry, red-rimmed eyes but he seems content with the fact that it’s just me at least, doesn’t spit insults and hiss threats at me. I’m still fully-clothed and _so_ much bigger than him. I feel the power imbalance but maybe I’ve already proven that I’ll never take advantage of him like this. He lets me wrap a towel around him (it’s mine, it’s new and fluffy and he deserves it) and wipe some of the water from his hair.

“Are you good to go outside?” I ask gently. He’s mostly still against me with little give to his body.

He just sniffles in return, his eyes still glassy and dark. I take it as consent. I manage to get him back to our room and get him into at least a loose-fitting sweatshirt and boxers. Then I just sit with him and towel off his hair. He gets looser in the silence, letting his body lean back against mine. “I think it’s killing me.” He finally admits, quietly, no more than a breath, none of his usual bravado and dramatics.

And that’s all he says. He leaves it at a nebulous, vague “it.” But whatever “it” is, I think it’s killing all of us.

I set the towel down, combing my fingers through his mostly dry hair instead. I can see fresh tear tracks down his face but his eyes are closed. He must’ve been crying quietly. I thumb over the tear tracks gently and as I’m reaching for the towel again to really clean off his face he starts talking again. “I’m sorry.” His voice is thick with snot and on the edge of breaking. “You must be so fucking sick of me and this…and me always fucking crying and me never being able to take anything and all my fucking breakdowns.” His voice gets heavier with every word. “You must be so fucking sick of always having to take care of me and getting nothing accomplished.” He sobs.

I just run the towel over the fresh tears, getting them mixed up with his snot and the water left on him. “I’m not.” I answer gently. “I don’t want anything in return for this. You don’t have to do anything for me.” I assure him because I was never doing this for something in return. I did things that I knew Hansol would never know about. I distracted Dongsung every time he grossly overstepped Hansol’s boundaries. Sometimes I did his laundry with mine. I wore his nail polish and listened to him talk about his art. And I did all of that because he deserved something light in the endless fucking weight thrust onto his shoulders, not because there was some reward waiting for me at the end of all of this. “You don’t even have to get better for me.”

And he doesn’t stop crying, maybe he even starts crying harder but he pulls me into a bear hug that throws both of us back onto his bed. “You should stay here tonight.” It’s a suggestion really, a request wrapped up into any other packaging. “Be my Doldol for the night.” He nuzzles into me, still soaked with tears and snot and whatever else.

“Yeah, of course.” I answer because I’ve never turned him down before. Even when he doesn’t ask, I was always somehow saying yes to him.

*

I’m making music. I’m making my _own_ music for once. I’m really putting my all in it, guarding it closely, knowing that it’ll never end up in the hands of Hunnus, knowing that this is entirely mine. Sangdo left the practice room probably an hour ago to get lunch with Hojoon. And it was always more fun to compose with Sangdo, always easier. But alone, the music is really _mine_. And with the way things are going I could use all the sole ownership of as much as I can get my hands on.

I faintly hear the door click open behind me but I have my headphones over my ears and I’m playing around with some low-fi electronic track that fuzzes everything else out. I figure it’s just Sangdo getting back from lunch and don’t even turn around with a greeting. But my concentration on the track is absolutely fucked by someone nosing their way up my neck and blowing a puff of air against the ear of my headphones. I nearly jump out of my skin and throw my headphones on the desk only to be met with Hanosl’s curly, Grinch-esque smile.

“Jumpy.” He laughs casually like we’re like this.

We’re not. I’m not like this with anyone. Sangdo was touchy but always in that comforting, familial, almost fatherly way—a firm hand on my shoulder, a comforting hug, a clap on the back. Hansol was rarely touchy, clingy only with Byungjoo. And I rarely got within touching distance of Hansol unless he’s sprawling out all over me like a spoiled cat. He was usually shrinking away from being touched if he wasn’t in the middle of a full-on break, hysterically begging to share a bed with Hojoon but also begging not to be touched. I didn’t have any outward requests about skinship but it rarely came my way. I was too boney to make for a good cuddle buddy anyway.

“Fuck…man.” I manage, holding my hand over my hammering heart.

“Is this some sort of aversion to touch or did I just scare you?” He asks, the Cheshire smile still perched comfortably on his lips.

“…both maybe?” I whisper unsurely.

He looks unconvinced and doesn’t move any farther away.

“What are you doing up here anyway?” I ask, borderline-awkward. I had seen Hansol at his worst—or something close to his worst anyway—but I rarely saw him at his best. I rarely saw him upbeat and ready to joke around, his hands resting comfortably on my shoulder. _That_ Hansol was for someone else.

“I don’t think Sangdo is coming back any time soon.” He tells me slyly, eyes glinting with knowledge I don’t possess. “So talk music with me.” He concludes brightly.

So I turn on my speakers and let the track filter out into the real world. Hansol just drapes himself over my shoulders, peeking at the screen from barely behind my neck. It’s close—unnecessarily close maybe—but I’m not the only one in this relationship. I’ve never been. And with all my self-imposed rules and arbitrarily-drawn lines I created a set space for myself, where I _should_ be in relation to Hansol based on his reaction to everyone else. I never considered that the simple fact that it’s _me_ and not everyone else changes the boundaries. I’m not the only one drawing the lines.

I could mark off the proper distance people should be and put a red velvet rope in front of the art all I wanted. But I never considered the art never had to stay behind the red velvet rope to begin with.

*

I get to be the guinea pig for Hansol’s next project. I’m not even 100% certain _what_ his next project is. I know it’s some kind of broadcast and he has formally invited me to watch once he gets around to recording it but that’s really all I know. I’m used to being part of things I don’t understand with Hansol anyway.

He’s got me kind of trapped in the wardrobe room of the company, with a worrying amount of makeup brushes, painting on my face. He’s not really painting. It’s not the same as when he’s really painting. It’s more controlled and precise, less organic and spontaneous. I have to admit that the eyeliner feels a bit thick and I know the contouring is a bit much but, whatever, I’m just helping out. It’s not until he reaches for a deep purple shade of eyeshadow that I say anything.

I just gently put my hand over his and push the eyeshadow back onto the table. “I don’t think that’ll suit me.” I suggest gently.

He cocks his eyebrow—curious and amused that I would ever butt in on his artistic vision. “Oh?”

“Bold looks never suit me.” It’s true. I’ve never had a hair color more interesting than dark brown or a concept more interesting than “bad boy next door” and I’ve never been able to _be_ more interesting than my stage name or my height. I can’t pull off anything like that because I’d just get lost in my outfit or look. “It’d probably look good on you, though.” I concede. Maybe that’s what he’s going for anyway, maybe he’s gonna do this makeup for himself.

“So, you think it’d suit me?” His voice is overly sweet, almost sinister and he is clearly _not_ happy with my answer.

“It’d suit you better.” I answer quietly, wanting to get out of this as fast as possible.

He grips the brush in his hand tighter, his jaw clenching. “Oh, so just bury Hansol under whatever heavy makeup and crazy clothes so you don’t even see him?” He hisses and I can tell this is an old wound.

“No,” I start, gently prying the makeup brush out of his hand, “ _I’d_ disappear.” I answer simply. “You’re the only one who can pull this off because you’re the only one bright enough to still shine through anything.”

He looks shocked first but his jaw unclenches slowly. He knows what’s worth turning into a fight or not. “Maybe to you,” he breathes out. “Maybe to you that’s what it looks like.”

“You wore like three coats and one of them was all fur and a big, stupid hat for Open the Door and I still can’t forget the face you made during your part.” I offer as some kind of proof. But I really did remember. I always remember _Hansol_ regardless of the dumb shit we were wearing at the time.

“Sehyuk got a fur coat too.” He’s no longer so tense under my hands but he still looks guarded and hurt.

“The only thing I remember about Sehyuk is him looking like a bad Jay Park cosplay.” I tell him, a smile playing on my face.

“ _Shut_ _up_!” He screeches. “He _did_!” And it’s probably only the first bandaid on a decades-old, festering wound. But I’ll stick around for decades to do what I can to really heal it.

*

The one thing Stardom had on Hunnus (though, the longer I’m here the less sure I am that it’s only one thing) is the company building. Stardom’s building had that sleek, modern, desperately-wants-to-be-YG look that came with too many rooms and lots of wide, open space that’s only purpose was to look nice. Hunnus is cramped—over crowded even—with the few entertainers under their name. The rooftop is shit too, I mean at least they _have_ one but that’s about all I can say. The rooftop at Stardom wasn’t amazing but it was wide and open, big enough for us to dance on. All of us, back when we were thirteen members instead.

Hunnus’ rooftop is crowded and water-stained, AC units and fenced-off areas taking up most of the space. But we still use it, climbing up the rickety staircase that’s probably only meant for maintenance staff. It’s only natural for a group of dreamers to be drawn to the stars after all. And with everything winding down, all our walls are down too.

Hansol lays on the water-stained stucco with his head in my lap, his eyes turned towards the stars. I’m combing my hands through his hair, pushing it all to one side and letting it fall back. It feels like we should be having some big, important conversation here, under the stars. But I think we’ve had all the important conversations we need to have. I think, maybe, we just need to look at the stars. Maybe we just need a reminder that that things never stay still for long.

He raises his hand up, pinching his fingers together like he’s plucking a star out of the sky. “How do you think you know it’s time to leave?” He asks, his voice unwavering and sure but quiet and small.

Neither of us have really left yet. No one has _really_ left since Taeyang. But I think the thought is weighing heavily on all of us. And I don’t know when it’s time to really _leave_. I’ve always slotted myself between Sangdo and Hojoon and Sangdo was so painfully committed to at least the other members if not the whole thing that he hasn’t been weighed down by the thought of leaving yet. Hansol is the first one to talk about it with me since Hyunho unsurely told me that he was ending his contract over lunch years ago.

But this can’t be the first time Hansol has talked about it. He was always quietly very close to Hyosang and with the raging wildfire that he was with us, he _had_ to have talked to Hansol about leaving once or twice. And even with so many years gone and company changes and slowing comebacks, Hansol still stuck around. He watched one of our brightest stars flame out up close and didn’t jump ship then. I couldn’t say I’d do the same.

“I think you just know.” Because even if I stuck through the lawsuit and company changes and shedding members like a dying flower sheds petals, I still knew when it was time to leave.

He hums out an affirmative and his dark, deep, clear eyes are the prettiest reflecting pool for the stars from this angle. His eyes suddenly shift back to mine with a warmth the stars will never posses. “I think I’m gonna change my name.” He says off-handedly.

I shake my head and laugh. “I think I’m gonna do the same thing.” I push his unruly bangs away from his face, cupping his cheeks. “Tell me when you do.”

He smiles, his mouth curling up in that weird, little way that only he could do. “Of course I will.” And it sounds more like a promise than I expect. Because deep down, regardless of what we say out loud, we both know that it’s almost over. But _this_ —me and Hansol and promises-that-aren’t-promises and the stars—isn’t going anywhere.

**

**Author's Note:**

> technically my bias was always jenissi but in reality like half of topp dogg is actually my bias  
> [tumblr](angelinmyheartt.tumblr.com) [cc](https://curiouscat.me/Nitzer)


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